


rabbit hole (lurk)

by canumaybenot



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alastor is absolutely not nice, Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Dark fic, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Existentialism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear, Gen, Guilt, Guns, Hallucinations, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Manipulation, Masturbation, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Predator/Prey, Psychological Torture, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stalking, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, family death mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canumaybenot/pseuds/canumaybenot
Summary: Oh.There’s a dim pulse, right in his core and lapping at the edges of awareness. Something that would have been so subtle had he been occupied by anything else. It brings the faint ache of nostalgia, but bears promising potential forsomething.It’s a tether--this he is sure of. A subtle tether pulling him to the remnants of his human life, most likely one of his beloved belongings being activated. An invitation.His previously tapping fingers still and he sits back, lounging in his chair.Knowingly or not, someone has drawn his attention.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 67
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. Just a warning, this will be a very dark fic. Please be mindful of the tags/warnings and take care of yourselves. If anything in the tags bothers you, I wouldn't recommend continuing. My plan is for this to only continue in its intensity. If you see anything that you think should be tagged, please give me a heads up and I'll be more than happy to include it.  
> I'll also be adding tags as I go.

Nostalgia threatens to choke you on your 3 hour drive to the family lakehouse. Just driving through the small neighboring town had your hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. There were so many emotions to unpack just during the drive that you begin to wonder if your plan was worth it. The resolve you felt for moving into this property begins to crumble and you hadn’t even laid eyes on it. 

It had been your grandparents’ property and when they died, it went to your parents. Your father’s death three months ago thus left it ultimately to you. It seemed like a good idea at first--moving into the family lakehouse to cope with the loss of family. And, your more rational side reasoned, the perfect place to work. Your contract demanded you write the last novel within the next two years and breaking away from the city was what you thought you needed. Why not do what every writer does and nope off to a secluded property? 

It was against the wishes of your well-meaning friends, though. _You’ve been through so much, (Y/N). You should be surrounded by people who love you, not out in the middle of nowhere,_ they said. You understood their worry. You didn’t exactly have the best track record being alone, what with your seemingly deteriorating mental health in recent months. It was after your father’s death sobbing on your apartment floor with a bottle of Irish whiskey when you had the revelation; the only way for you to heal would be to give yourself no other option but to face the past. No more ignoring it. No more avoidance. 

And yet, parking the car and looking at the actual property had you suffocating.  
\----  
The sheer amount of dust particles floating in the entrance have been ten years in the making. The last time you’d been here was when you turned eighteen. Weaving through the rooms, it feels like you can almost see the memories replaying. It had been you and your parents, your remaining grandmother, an aunt and uncle with your three cousins. It had been a full house with you and your cousins camping in the large living room. 

The house isn’t luxurious by any means; more like a slightly modern wooden cabin. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. You never revisited after your eighteenth birthday, but you remember your parents coming here to go through your grandparents’ things after their passing. Looking at the rooms now, you’re grateful for the remaining furnishings despite their antique appearances. 

The master bedroom holds a poster bed, dauntingly big for just you. The too-large dresser and mirror combo. The bathtub in the master bathroom has rust stains surrounding the drain and the grout in the separate shower is beginning to peel. 

The second biggest room is the guest bedroom, but upon opening the door you find it overridden with boxes and a twin sized bed buried underneath taxadermied stag heads. The sight is unsettling, to say the least. A sea of antlers resting stagnant on the small bed, dead eyes staring at the ceiling together. You never knew nor cared for what was in the boxes when you were young. Now you have a morbid curiosity. 

With the sun beginning to set, the room feels ominous and you think it best to close the door, at least until the next morning. 

The third and smallest room now only holds a large, oak desk seemingly perfect for your needs. 

It feels like you’re walking in a dream as you shuffle cardboard boxes and electronics from the moving trailer into your new home. You aimed to only bring the essentials-- your clothes, bathroom necessities, flatscreen, printer, laptop. Whatever else you needed was a fifteen minute drive to the small town. 

Laying in bed hours later, you _still_ don’t feel like you’re really here. You _still_ don’t even feel like your parents are dead. Crickets chirp, frogs sing. You hear an owl in the distance. It’s beautiful, but _devastatingly lonely _.  
\----__

____

____

In a lavishly decorated estate located in a hellish dimension sat a _devastatingly bored _demon. He swirls a brown liquid in a crystal decanter, sharp claws tapping a rhythm restless and irritated. His sharp smile never wanes but he can feel his patience grow thin. Everything he can think of doing feels painfully _dull _. For years now he’s felt the mundanity of his days wearing him down. He fears if nothing entertaining shows itself he just might--____

_____ _

_____ _

_Oh._

There’s a dim pulse, right in his core and lapping at the edges of awareness. Something that would have been so subtle had he been occupied by anything else. It brings the faint ache of nostalgia, but bears promising potential for _something _.__

____

____

It’s a tether--this he is sure of. A subtle tether pulling him to the remnants of his human life, most likely one of his beloved belongings being activated. An invitation. 

His previously tapping fingers still and he sits back, lounging in his chair. 

Knowingly or not, someone has drawn his attention.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I think that I'm human, I think about God  
>  I think of the chances, I think that I'm wrong _
> 
> Lurk, The Neighborhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who read, gave kudos, commented, and bookmarked. I can't express how much it really does mean to me. I hope you enjoy the ride the further we go!

_You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake for. Awareness comes in waves and despite wide open eyes, you’re only now starting to see the sunrise glow through the closed blinds._

_There’s something standing in the doorway but you can’t look._

_"Breakfast is ready, will you come eat with me?”_

_It’s your mother’s voice and your mind provides the belief that she’s not dead. She never died and she’s waiting on you to eat breakfast. But you can’t move and the panic rises because you feel like, even though she’s alive, there’s something telling you you’ll never see her again if you don’t get up._

_“Why are you ignoring me? Please come eat with me, I miss you.”_

_You’re not sure why you’re filled with guilt. But then again, mothers always have a way of doing that, don’t they?_

_You can hear her crying as she moves towards you and you’re desperate to plead that this isn’t your fault, you’re not doing anything wrong, stop accusing--_

_You can finally move your head, only to see yourself impaled through the gut by a set of antlers._

_\--_

The sheets wrap around you in such a way that you’re sure you’re being assaulted as you wake. They’re damp with sweat and your legs merely slip through as you try to kick them away. 

The remembrance of your dream hits you and out of spite you avoid frantically clutching your stomach. 

_You’re intact. You’re fine._

_\--_

It’s ten past noon when the internet folks arrive. You refrained from setting up your workspace at the desk until they’ve sorted everything out, electing instead to get the television plugged in. Very carefully and strategically slow, you shimmied the flatscreen atop the entertainment shelf. Had the installer knocked while you had the T.V. precariously in your grasp, you would have dropped it. 

It’s not until you have someone in the house with you that you feel brave enough to open the door to the guest room. Everything is right where you found it but there’s a dim feeling of _something_ in there with you. Something that wasn’t there last night. The air feels vaguely alive and it strikes you as morbidly ironic, considering the taxadermied heads. But there’s rustling in the opposite room from the installer and it gives you the courage to walk past the twin bed to raise the blinds and open the window. 

You’ll give it a day or two to air out, you think. You have to maneuver your way through the boxes and you’re not sure where to start. One of the goals you’d set for yourself was to sort through the leftover possessions from your grandparents and great-grandparents. You’d maybe even learn something about them along the way. You didn’t know much, to be frank. Your great-grandparents had your grandmother right in the middle of the Depression era, trapped in New Orleans with no resources to leave but no proper way to survive either. That’s where your knowledge stopped, though. 

You open a box in the far right corner of the room that seems to call out to you. It’s different from the other boxes in that it’s alone and seemingly the dustiest of them all. Your blood runs cold at the contents-- you don’t know much about guns, but you _do_ know enough to identify a double barrel shotgun and a hunting rifle. You’ve never been a fan and hope they’re unloaded. At the bottom of the box are three hunting knives and an old dial radio. The radio in particular seems incredibly misplaced with it’s wooden cathedral build. Out of the rest of the contents though, it’s the most inviting. 

With some polishing, you think, it would be a nice piece in the living room. 

\--

Living in Hell, one learns that nothing can surprise them anymore. 

Even when he was alive, Alastor was rarely surprised by anything. The only times he found himself taken aback were during a victim’s final moments (for the particularly rambunctious ones, at least) or when he’s touched without his consent. 

Now though, he’s almost ashamed to admit he’s doubling over in shock at the intensified pulses racking his body. He’d only been expecting the dull sensation from the previous night. 

Alastor leans against the alleyway wall, the remains of his latest hunt splattered here and there along the ground and his long fingers drag blood down the brick as he tries to steady himself. The pulses come in three waves and he’s more confused than ever. (Another feeling he rarely experiences.) 

Three pulses represent three tethers. _Three beloved items from his human life that have been activated._

A century in Hell, and not once has he ever felt the pull, not to mention three. Is someone willfully trying to summon a demon of his caliber? 

He brings his left wrist to his mouth and bites into it. With his ungloved right hand Alastor draws a sigil he’s only seen in books with his blood. A door sized void manifests in the brick as if it’d been there all along.

Had any other demon seen him they’d mistake his excitement for anger with the way his eyes glow and his pupils no doubt shift into radio dials. His tongue licks along his smile, tasting the remnants of his blood and if he had a heart, it’d be soaring. 

_How delightful!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be a double upload tonight, folks. Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want to be faithful, I want to be raw.  
>  I want to be ignorant, I want to know all._
> 
> Lurk, The Neighborhood.

It’s nearing six thirty when you park in the driveway and you know you should feel marginally better. Internet access provides you the chance to feel a little less alone and you think sleeping in the living room with the television on would be better than the large bed in the master bedroom. Maybe with a light or two on, just for good measure. 

But entering the house feels _different_. The air is heavy and slightly hotter than you’re used to and you wonder if it’s because a majority of the windows are open. The seasons are transitioning from spring to summer and you noted the hint of humidity as you were shopping. The storm clouds rolling in hint to rain.

_So much for airing the house out overnight._

\--

The Overlord wasn’t sure what he was expecting to walk into when he exited the void portal but it wasn’t a stuffy old cabin with no one in it. He thought he’d find dumb teenagers making a poorly drawn summoning circle or maybe even someone who knew what they were doing. But not...a relatively peaceful residence with no one to greet him. 

The room he’s entered has a desk in front of a large open window, a couch on the other side, and a short, empty bookshelf. The only signs of anyone having ownership of the room are papers strewn atop the desk and a--what was it called? _Laptop?--_ buried under more papers. Besides these hastily placed papers, the room feels utterly still and devoid of life. 

Standing in the middle of the hallway, the door to what seems to be the master bedroom is wide open. The window inside fills the room with what he assumes is afternoon sunlight, something Alastor hasn’t seen in… Well. A century. It’s a little disorienting to his demon eyes, so used to the red and black sky of Hell. Even inside the cabin, the air is fresher and he feels himself manually breathe in deep. 

Next to the main bedroom is another room with the door partially closed. Alastor has nothing but time and he approaches to open the door completely-- only to find that his hand fazes through the wood. 

_Ah, so there’s the caveat._

Fully in the room, he’s stopped in his tracks by the sight of stag heads overrunning the small bed. The sight reminds him of the heads he had in his own cabin during his lifetime, a few of which he’d hunted himself. He feels a vague fondness for the heads on the bed and can’t help but admire their antlers. Whoever the hunter was, they had lovely taste. He’s about to see if he can touch one when he hears a noise in the corner of the room coming from a box that is separated from all the others. The lid is open and as he approaches, the infrequent feeling of shock strikes once again. 

He had wondered every now and then what happened to his belongings after his untimely death. While he knew his home must have been raided and his possessions passed on to new owners, he had never felt the pull of the tether. While three of the items in the box were certainly his, he can’t help but question what has activated them, now of all times.

In his thoughts, Alastor hadn’t heard the sound of a vehicle parking outside, but his attention is quickly drawn to the sound of the front door opening. The smile that never left his face only grows inhumanly larger. 

\--

You think it’s best to go in the guestroom and pick up the radio before the sun can get any lower. You bought a wood polishing spray to clean it with and you intend to place it on the shelf below the flatscreen-- something old, something new. 

You’re not sure if it’s the way the sun is setting or the way the darkening clouds look outside the window, but there are more shadows than you remember there being inside the room. They appear darker than they should realistically be and you could swear, if you stare at them long enough, they ooze around the corners of the wall like tar. You’re standing in the doorway and your body feels as though it’s preparing you for a fight or flight response. 

When you were a kid, you’d wake in the middle of the night and blearily walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. Every time without fail you’d feel the unignorable urge to dash back down the hallway and into your room, lest something was chasing you and were to grab you. You hadn’t felt that way since you were twelve, but now the same instinct washes over you here in this cabin room, removed from human life. 

It feels as though the shadows are preparing to snatch you from where you stand and walking further into the room feels like you’re making an irreversible decision. But, you think, you’re here to face these kinds of uncomfortable feelings. The whole point of you being here is to face this home, this past, these memories and either kill them forcibly or lay them to rest. This room in particular, for all intents and purposes, was going to be the room you would spend the most time in when going through these remaining belongings. Dashing out of it any chance you got was not conducive to your mission. 

Holding your breath, you force yourself to walk at a measured pace and shut the window. The further you walk in the room, the more the air fills with static and goosebumps threaten to rise on your arms. Every nerve in your body begs you to _get the fuck out of the room for god’s sake_ but instead, you turn towards the opened box and reach for the old radio. It’s heavier than you expected and you have to cradle it closer to your chest to compensate. You let the weight of the radio slow your steps, preventing you from hastily walking out. As you exit the room and look one last time, you hear the low rumble of thunder before shutting the door for the night. 

After depositing the radio on the living room table, you walk to the office and main bedroom to shut the windows and close the blinds. The thunder is progressively getting louder and you know it’s only a matter of time before the wind and rain pick up. You leave the lamps on in each room and keep the main ceiling light on in the living room and kitchen. Electricity bill be damned, you refused to be in darkness more than you needed to be. 

Food isn’t something you think you can manage, and instead eat some toast after you put the groceries away. You don’t eat much these days and you know it shows by the way your pants fit just a little loose. It’s not _intentional_ , you reason. You’re just...not hungry. 

After mindlessly scrolling along Prime, Netflix, and Philo, nothing seems interesting enough, even for background noise. Your only other option is music and your default for filling silence has always been jazz. It’s unintrusive, timeless, and ranges so greatly in sound that you never get bored of it. 

You know it’s unwise, and your near empty stomach will hate you for it, but you pour two fingers worth of rich brown liquid in a whiskey glass. You sip leisurely and fixate on wiping and polishing every inch and crevice of the wooden radio. When you’re finally done, it looks brand spanking new with the way it shines. No amount of fiddling with the dials or pressing any buttons could make it turn on, but you already knew it was futile. The thing had been around since the 20’s-- it would take a professional touch to ever get it working again. 

\--

As a demon of his status, one learns how to identify the dangerously vulnerable ones in a large crowd. They stick out with their exceptionally dark auras wrapping around them like snakes, constricting and weighing them down until their backs are forever hunched and their eyes unmistakably dead. 

He’s watched this woman for no more than two hours now and he’s seen her aura shift between fear, stubbornness, and the inky black of apathy. She’s so precarious, and he can see her resolve dangling on the edge of a sharp knife, just waiting for someone to help her up or drag her down. _Break her._ How likely she is to grasp at anything for hope or tend to denial in her darkest times. How he imagines she’d clench her fingers into anything that would provide her comfort and safety. The desperate dependency.

He can see her steadily grow drunker and slouch further into the living room couch and had she been able to see anything of his form, she’d see a shadow with claws hungrily engulfing the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we can finally get the ball rolling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey_   
> _What's your name?_   
> _Don't worry_   
> _Don't be afraid_   
> _We won't hurt you_
> 
> Don't Worry, We'll Be Watching You, Gotye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double upload tonight as well. I have my own writing deadline coming up on Tuesday, so I won't be posting anything new until Wednesday or Thursday. Figured I'd post these in the meantime. Not really satisfied with how they turned out, but I hope you all enjoy them regardless. 
> 
> Again, a huge thank you to every single one of you. You're so wonderful.

_ There’s something odd about seeing your parents sitting across from you at the small dining table. You’re not sure why it’s odd; it seems like a perfectly normal scene but they both look nervous, like you’re interviewing them for a job. Your mom sits with a smile that looks like a grimace and your dad has his hands folded on the table. It’s raining and the thunder sounds far away.  _

_ “I see you found your great grandpa’s old radio. You did a good job,” he says.  _

_ You didn’t even notice the radio sitting in the middle of the table, like it just materialized at his mention.  _

_ “Well,  _ technically  _ it wasn’t your great grandpa’s-- it belonged to an acquaintance,” he continues. There’s something pooling at the bottom of the antique, something black. “God, your grandma hated the old thing.”  _

_ “Looks like you missed a spot,” your mother points out. The black starts dribbling down from the top and she reaches out and runs a finger through the liquid. It’s red on her finger tip and she brings it to her mouth.  _

_ There’s the slow  _ clack clack  _ of heels behind you and you’re startled when a pair of hands rest on your shoulders. You’re filled with dread as the hands grip you harder; there’s a sense of urgency telling you to push away whoever’s touching you and to run as far as possible. Their fingers turn into claws and you think your shoulders begin to bleed through your shirt. Your parents do nothing but smile, as though they don’t see what’s happening.  _

_ The hands release their grip and slowly move down your arms to your own hands, leaving a trail of blood along their path. By the time they grip your hands, you’re hyperventilating and you think you might pass out. Their hands are huge, completely engulfing yours as they make you reach for the radio and break it open from the top. Each break sounds sickening, like snapping open someone’s ribs with your bare hands. It's echoes drown the sound of your hectic breaths. The more you tear off, the more blood spills from the radio. Your hands slip, smearing red along the table and you’re desperately trying to move your lips, but you can’t and all you can manage are panicked mumbles.  _

_ Crammed inside the radio is the source of all the blood; a heart, weakly beating and still warm in your slippery palms. You’re begging now, mumbles coming out as hysterical wails, pleading for it all to stop and go away.  _

_ The stag antlers are back in your gut and this time you see bits of your intestines hanging from them, gooey and dripping. It’s the last thing you see before falling back on the figure behind you.  _

\--

You barely make it to the kitchen sink before emptying what little you had in your stomach. Acidic whiskey and chunks of bread burn your throat and the taste makes you dry heave after everything in your body is already emptied. 

The only thing stopping you from clutching your stomach this time isn't spite, but the burning in both of your shoulders. 

\--

It's been two weeks and you still can't bring yourself to enter the guest bedroom or move the radio from the living room. It sits under the flat screen, a dead antique that you try hard to ignore. But at night when you're on the edge of drunkenly falling asleep on the couch, you could swear it talks to you; that the light flickers on and speaks nonsense. Sometimes it's your parent's voices, sometimes your own. Other times it's a man's voice, either too enigmatic or too threatening. It's not always easy to distinguish words and most times it sounds like a whole new language all together. 

You can't remember when you last got a full night's rest. It's as if the house is willfully trying to disturb you every chance it gets. You swear the doors and television have a mind of their own when you wake up to something playing too loud or the guest bathroom door opening and shutting. It's even happening during your daytime naps. 

You think it might just be you. You know you drink more than you should and it wouldn't surprise you if you fell asleep to a program you don't remember watching. The slamming doors, though… Well. You think it's safer to chalk that up to sleep deprivation. 

The dreams haven't been as vivid as your first two nights, thankfully. They've been predominantly filled with the anxiety that you're not the only self-aware individual in your unconscious dreamland, and it's after these dreams you wake up feeling  _ watched.  _

Even after two weeks, the bruises on your shoulders haven't faded. They still ache when you lay on them for too long, but no rational answer comes to mind when you ask where they came from. You've never known yourself to be  _ that  _ active of a sleeper, even intoxicated. You try your best to ignore them but they stand alarmingly dark against your skin and you can't help but stare as you're waiting for the shower water to heat. 

\--

_ Fourteen days.  _

Alastor knows that under any other circumstance, he'd be impatient by now. He'd have killed his prey and been back to wallowing in his boredom. 

But the possibilities were too great. All he needed was a sample of her blood drawn from one of his items and he'd be free to roam in his physical form. And  _ then.  _ He'd finally get the satisfaction of breaking her mind. 

And honestly, it's quite fun inconveniencing her any chance he gets. He enjoys watching her jump from her dreams and warily stare at his radio. 

But it's gone on long enough. He needs to get her back in the room with his items for his plan to work. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey_   
> _Lost your way?_   
> _Don't worry_   
> _Just do as we say_  
>  _And we won't hurt you_
> 
> Don't Worry, We'll Be Watching You, Gotye.

Ten hours of sleep.  _ Uninterrupted  _ sleep. This was a big deal, and your body knew it. You got up for the day, willing to go as far as to make a bagel and a cup of coffee for breakfast. The sleep deprivation hindered your work on the current novel, but today you felt reinvigorated. It felt easier to breathe and the house didn’t feel so oppressive. 

Walking to the office, you glance at the closed guest room door. Maybe today will be the day. 

The morning proved to be a productive one, and for the first time since moving, you’re able to end a conference call with your agent having something to show for yourself. 

_ It’s a good setup,  _ she said.  _ But are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?  _

Your mind wandered back to your father’s funeral. Your mother’s, only a year prior. 

_ Yes,  _ you said.  _ It’s time.  _

It really isn’t. 

You’d only just gotten off the phone with her when your phone began vibrating. Your uncle. He’d been trying to call ever since after the funeral. It was hard, speaking to him. He sounded so much like your dad, it had been the last thing you needed for a wound so fresh. But you’d been ignoring his calls for too long now, and it might be good to get some perspective on what to do with all the boxes. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, kiddo. Glad you finally answered this time.” It wasn’t the first time you’d heard that greeting from a family member. It was routine by now; spew apologies, make small talk, politely say you’re working and then say your goodbyes. But he never made it that easy. 

“Really? You’re living in that old place?” He sounds skeptical. 

“I mean, what else should I do with it? Selling it seemed...wrong.” There were too many memories associated with the lake house. Good and bad, alike. You needed time to explore everything. 

“But it’s so... _ isolated.  _ Are you sure that’s wise?” 

Defensiveness curls around your gut. “It’s not a problem. I’m actually doing okay. I’m working again and I think the solitude is doing me good.” Lying through your teeth seemed to be the only option. All too suddenly, the air feels thick again. Like something bigger than you has slithered in without you seeing. 

“Is it really? Kiddo, you don’t have to lie. We’re no strangers to loss, it’s okay to  _ not be okay. _ ” He’s right and you know it. But you’re sick of everyone second guessing you. Next best tactic is to change the subject. 

“Hey, I actually have a question… Grandpa and grandma left a lot of boxes in the guestroom, and I think mom and dad just decided to leave them here. Any ideas on what to do with them?” Having someone on the phone-- like when the internet technician was here-- gives you the courage to approach the room. The door squeaks as it opens and though it’s the middle of the day, it feels ominous. Your uncle provides a means of grounding you. 

“Oh, man. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure I’d know what’s in them. Have you opened any yet?” 

“Only one-- it was in the corner of the room. Had an old radio, a few knives, and a couple of guns.” Looking in the box again, and the guns still make you uneasy. 

“Those must have been your great-granddad’s. Mom kept them because he asked her to before he died. But that’s a box she rarely poked around, if I remember correctly.” Avoiding the guns, you reach down for one of the hunting knives. It was the only one sheathed and had a glossy wooden handle, curved to fit perfectly in the palm. You held the phone between your shoulder and ear. 

“Maybe because she didn’t like the guns. I know I’m not a fan.” Unsheathing it revealed a six inch flat blade, curving to an incredibly sharp point at the top. For being a century old, it appears to be very well taken care of. 

“Yes, but I think because a few of those things didn’t even belong to great-grandpa. I think I remember her telling me they got it after someone they knew died. But I don’t remember much beyond that.” Warning bells ring in the back of your mind, but you’re not sure why. You’re looking out the window with the knife still unsheathed and you feel an alarming jolt of pain in your palm. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” You drop the knife on the ground and rush to the guest bathroom. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I cut myself on one of those damn knives.” 

“Better use alcohol on it, don’t know where it’s been.” 

Blood pools at the bottom of the sink and you watch captivated with how it drips from your palm. It’s as if a switch has been flicked and suddenly you’re not sure it’s your hand you’re staring at. It seems like something apart from you, like you’re watching a movie instead of living a life. It doesn’t look like you and your memories don’t feel like your own. 

“(Y/N)?” Your uncle’s voice slams you back into reality and you feel disoriented. The burning in your hand grounds you as much as it confuses you. 

\--

It’s about time, Alastor thinks. 

He approaches the knife on the ground and once again bites into his left wrist, as if he’s about to open the void portal. 

He’s finally able to grip the blade and he lets her blood and his own blood mingle on the item.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You don't know what it's like to drown away, in a puddle of shame_   
> _And you..._  
>  _Yes, you..._  
>  _Made me insane_  
>  All Eyes On Me, OR3O

It doesn't feel like your dreams are entirely your own anymore. It's gotten to a point where you feel a strong sense of awareness; a knowing of when you're unconscious. Sometimes you're so aware, you'll ask someone if there's a way for you to wake up. Then you'll spend the rest of the time filled with a sense of panic because you can't exit the dream. 

Sometimes they’re short, almost vision like. Other times they feel so long, you’re surprised to wake up and find that only two hours have passed. More often than not, they all take place there in the cabin, and on rare occasions they happen in your old family home. When you wake up, you could swear shadows dance around the foot of the bed, dissipating at the moment of your wakefulness. Like flies being swatted away. It's so unsettling that going to sleep feels like voluntarily walking into a cell. 

\--

_ Unlike the other dreams, this is happening in the streets of a city you can’t quite place. It doesn’t look like anywhere you’ve lived before and the atmosphere has a hazy feeling to it. You’re on the sidewalk and the further you walk, the further away from the lights you get. Somehow you know that if you just turn and go back the way you came, you’d be surrounded by music, people, and richly spiced food. You have every reason to turn around, and yet you find that you don’t.  _

_ Knowing that this is a dream makes you bold. You’re curious where this road will take you and although you know very well how most of your dreams end, you proceed anyway.  _

_ They’re just dreams, you figure. Nothing can truly happen here.  _

_ The longer you walk, the quieter everything becomes. There’s a light fog, not heavy enough to curtain the street lamps, but dense enough that you don’t immediately recognize the item on the sidewalk up ahead. It’s the radio, you realize. Besides the cabin, it’s one of the few constants in any dream you have now. You’re still never able to make out what it says to you, but you think it would rather talk  _ at  _ you than  _ with  _ you. Sometimes you can make out an audience laugh track, and other times you just hear enigmatic humming; some kind of show tune you can’t put your finger on.  _

_ It sits in front of you on the sidewalk almost expectantly, waiting for you to sit with it. Instead, you reach down and pick it up. You never touch it-- your mind always going back to ripping it open and hearing bones snap. But you’re feeling bold tonight. It doesn’t feel as heavy this time around, and you’re not sure if it’s because of dream-physics, but holding it almost makes you feel lighter.  _

_ For once, you’re able to hear what the man in the radio says this time. You think it might be because you’re embracing it.  _

_ “There, isn’t that better, darling?”  _

_ \-- _

_ This must be a night for new experiences, because once again you’re in neither the cabin nor the unfamiliar street, but the floor of a forest. You’re trapped on your stomach, stretched out and not daring to breathe. You can’t move and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re paralyzed with fear or because there’s a body straddling you from behind. It’s a heavy body, like they’re bearing all their weight on your back.  _

_ There’s the cold edge of what you can only assume is a blade slicing the back of your shirt open, lightly grazing your skin. You hear the same show tune humming and even though it’s a person, you could swear you hear the crackle of radio frequency.  _

_ You can’t feel any pain. It’s more of a pressure as whoever it is digs the knife into the middle of your back, right where your spine is. You feel the warmth of your blood pooling along your sides and it grounds you. They drag the knife from your neck to your tailbone and once they’re at the bottom, you feel sharp fingers dig into the incision they’ve made. Like performing a reckless surgery.  _

_ It’s not so much the feeling of it happening as it is the sound of it snapping, but you know this person has just quite literally ripped the spine from your body.  _

_ “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got your back.”  _

_ \-- _

You jolt awake at five thirty in the morning. Your eyes remain heavy but you know it’s no use going back to sleep. You don’t think you could even if you tried. 

The shadows seem to have crawled up onto the bed covers now, and they disperse when your eyes are drawn to them. You’re tired enough that you don’t feel so insane as you tell them to fuck right off. 

\--

Your back hurts something awful all morning and you think you might have slept wrong. Lying on the couch in the office, you’re making edits to the rough draft of your first three chapters. Despite the lack of sleep, two cups of coffee has made you awake enough to get  _ something  _ done. 

Ten minutes pass and your eyes begin to droop. Perhaps a nap, if only just for a few minutes. If the doors don’t shut when they’re not supposed to, and if the dreams are held at bay. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Here we go again_   
>  _I feel the chemicals kicking in_   
>  _It's getting heavy_   
>  _And I wanna run and hide_   
>  _I wanna run and hide_
> 
> Animal, Chase Holfelder.

_It’s the same dream, on the forest floor. Your spine hasn’t been taken yet and the body above you rests on the backs of your legs comfortably. The awareness that you’re not alone is so disorienting that for a terrifying moment you wonder if you’re dreaming at all. It’s not boldness you’re feeling this time around, but rather a blatant disregard for the danger you’ve found yourself in. Your fight or flight reflexes are confused by the stranger’s nonchalant humming and unlike last time, you hear the noises of the forest which act to give you a strange sense of comfort._

_Crickets chirp as he bears his weight._

_The blade runs along your vertebrae, not yet piercing your flesh. He seems as though he's savoring it; waiting to dig in like a meal. You can’t remember if he had this kind of patience with the task previously._

_The blade skirts along the dip between your shoulder blades and instead of pain, your brain says you feel sensitive._

_As this predator runs a knife along your back with the intention of ripping the spine from your body, you can’t help the confused grunt that escapes; the sensitive skin between your shoulder blades spark arousal but the shaking in your arms say fear. It’s a war of emotions you’ve never had to fight before and your confusion makes you afraid. You hope the figure above you mistakes your grunt for fear instead of pleasure._

_The humming stops and the knife stills. You can almost feel his head tilt in his own confusion and somehow the silence sparks an unsaid electricity. He runs the knife back along that sensitive spot in the opposite direction and this almost makes your grunt worse with an added unwanted buck of your hips. The blade is thrown to the side with a dull thud and the figure above you lets out a terrifying snarl. This time it’s his own claws that drag along your back and rip your shirt, with the warmth trickling down your sides being your blood once again._

_You’re surprised at your yelp and your hips further bucking into the person above._

_\--_

You’ve never woken up touching yourself before; can’t even remember the last time you’d even masturbated in the last few months. But you can’t deny that that’s exactly what you wake up from your nap doing--clumsily rutting into the palm of your hand, too pent up and drowsy to fully understand or even remember the intricacies of your dream. 

It feels feverish when you orgasm, something ripped from your body along with your gasp. At the first wave, you remember the blade and your back, and on the second wave you remember the man’s claws that made you bleed. 

You orgasm again and immediately feel a confused guilt. 

\--

After showering, you refuse to think any further on what has happened. Instead, you’re hyper aware of how the house feels almost...normal. 

\--

In his own estate, Alastor reflects. 

He reflects on his past victims and how they’ve never reacted to his actions with _arousal_. Quite a few times that’s how he lured them in, but never did they maintain the feeling as he showed them just what they were to him. Nor did he ever feel the need to act sexually in any way; it just never struck him as something he’d be interested in pursuing. It wasn’t an aversion, per say. More of something he’d never thought to consider. 

Perhaps it’s been the century of boredom. Perhaps it’s the fact that this human is laughably chaotic in her emotions. Or just maybe, he’s interested enough to see if this is something to use to further his plans. It _could_ work without such a carnal element, but… well. Where was the _full_ entertainment in that?

\--

_The day after your eighteenth birthday, in this cabin, your parents told you they were getting a divorce. It’s this very memory that seems to replay before you. You’re back to sitting at the table and your parents still look nervous, explaining the fact that they’ve failed at their marriage. You’ve always felt resentment at their timing-- couldn’t they have waited until returning to the city to tell you? Here in a cabin by the lake you feel forced to grapple with a reality you knew was coming but didn’t feel ready for._

_You were hurt then, and you’re hurt now. You couldn’t help but compare your family to that of your cousins’. They got siblings, happy parents. A mom who wasn’t drunk all the time and a dad who wasn’t married to his work. You were the product of their bad habits and you weren’t sure who to place the blame on-- you or them?_

_You can hear the ascent of clacking shoes, approaching to stand behind you. It can only be the same man in the radio. There’s a moment of almost-clarity that you’ve never had before when awake, but you wonder why this specific individual has been haunting your dreams._

_Before you can wonder any further, hands snake down your arms and you’re reminded once more of these hands guiding yours to rip apart the radio. The memory is fresh and almost identical to your positions now. Despite the fresh memory, you’ve never noticed the hands are clad in black gloves and that the sleeves are red, leaving a sliver of grey skin peeking through._

_The hands place a familiar hunting knife in your right hand and you can’t help but look across the table at your parents, wondering if they see what you see. They look nervous still and resentment ebbs in your stomach. The left glove covers your eyes and you feel nauseous, like you’re spinning blindfolded._

_There’s a searing pain in your ribs and as the hand covering your eyes lets go, you look down and see stag antlers protruding bloody from your chest, exposing pieces of what you assume are your lungs and ripping apart your rib cage._

_You can’t breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, huge thank you to literally everyone who has bookmarked, given kudos, and commented. Every single comment makes me smile like the biggest fool. It's super ridiculous but it's so fucking lovely. Please know I appreciate every single kind word this fic gets. I can't say it enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hush now, darling_  
>  _Don't say a word_  
>  _Demons calling_  
>  _They'll eat your soul_  
>  _I'm not sorry for what will come_  
>  _What you don't know_  
>  Hush, AViVA

Alastor creeps back into the earthly dimension and watches as the woman goes about some semblance of a nightly routine. She’s sporadic about when she decides to get ready for bed; some nights she merely drunkenly passes out on the couch and other nights she takes the time to wash her face, brush her teeth and crawl into her actual bed. She doesn’t take care of herself at all and he finds it a shame. 

His shadow lurks around her darkened room and he waits for her breathing to deepen. There’s something amusing about the way she sleeps, as though she’s not being watched by something bigger than her. Something that could kill her without moving an inch. 

He’s thrilled to see how his plan plays out. 

\--

The correlation between orgasming and the cabin feeling like a regular house was convenient enough for you to consider that you hadn’t been out socially in far too long. Back when you lived in your apartment and before your father’s passing, you had a steady flow of social interaction. Enough to be fulfilling, but too much to feel overwhelmed after everything happened. Even going to a cafe got tiring. 

But perhaps it’s time. 

And if going out and fucking a random stranger will help you feel more like yourself, then why deny the comfort? 

That’s how you find yourself putting effort into your appearance for the first time in months and driving to the town’s local cocktail and piano bar. There are better places to go, you figure. There was a club most college spring breakers went to that never seemed to be empty despite the small population; however, you felt too old for something so... _ pop-ish _ . Too old to go to a club, probably too young to go to the only other bar filled with war veterans and bikers. A cocktail and piano lounge seems like a happy medium. 

It’s barely eight-thirty and there are patches of fog hanging around the lake and the yard. You think it should be eerie, but it’s actually quite photogenic. You haven’t spent much time around the lake as you used to when you were young, and the thought crosses your mind to buy a foldable chair and set it on the dock. Just to write or read on during a nice day. 

It’s busy enough for a Friday evening that the only parking available is two streets down from the lounge. Your heels are modest enough that you’re not dying by the time you arrive, but you wish you had brought backup flats to stow in your bag. 

The lounge is smokey upon entering. This comes as a surprise, seeing as smoking isn’t usually allowed inside the bars you’ve been to. The lights are turned low, with the brightest being shined on the stage with a single piano, some bass strings, and a lone microphone. It feels like the setup to a movie and you realize that in all your drinking years, never have you ever been in a lounge this sophisticated and you feel slightly out of place. Perhaps you would have been better off going to the club. 

It’s slightly more crowded than you were bargaining for, and there’s only one barstool open at the very end of the counter. Many of the patrons were paired off into twos or threes, and those that were on their own sat reading books and sipping on their drinks. You feel marginally better about being alone, but one look at the singles sitting around doesn’t spark much confidence in your prospective sexlife tonight. 

Otherwise, your night turns out to be quite enjoyable, to your surprise. The live performance began a few moments after you got your drink and it was unobtrusive enough that the ambiance was maintained. Although you didn’t have a physical book like some of the others, you did have an ebook stowed away on your phone to keep you company. Three martinis later, and you’d given up trying to catch anyone looking your way. You merely had a nice time on your own. It actually felt quite empowering. 

After a few glasses of water and towards the ending of the live performance, you think it’s about time to take your leave. You’re sad to be leaving the warm and dimly lit environment but you promise yourself to come back-- probably with some work or a novel in tow. 

Once outside, you’re able to breathe in deep without wanting to cough from secondhand smoke. The air is cooler than you were anticipating and you wish for the comfort of a sweater or shawl. The streets are semi-empty, with only a few passersby walking together or talking on a phone. You hear distant music from another bar and the further you walk, the more you’re reminded of your dream. The fog feels a little heavier and for a terrifying moment you half expect to find that this whole night has been a dream and the radio is going to appear in front of you once again. 

But instead of the radio appearing, you feel as though you’re being followed. Shoes scuffle behind you and you think you see two figures trace the same steps you walked. 

You plan to make a run for it before you’re bumping into someone in front of you. Your heart catches in your throat and you’re sure this is the end.  _ Of course _ it’d be your luck to get assaulted.  _ Of course _ you’d die right after your parents. 

“Pardon me Miss, but I couldn’t help but notice you’re being followed! If you’d allow me, I’d be more than happy to escort you to your vehicle!” 

He’s tall and slightly lanky. You wonder if he worked at the lounge with the way he’s dressed; slightly old timey with a bowtie, a brown vest, oval glasses and gloves. He looks incredibly out of place, but innocent enough that you think you could take him should he make a threatening move. The shadow of the street lamp softens his barely lit face and you think your chances will be better with this guy than whoever is following you. 

“I-- I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” The walk isn’t that far to the car anyways; you think you should be safe for the time being. 

The man links his arm with yours, truly like an escort. It’s odd to be touched so casually by a stranger, but you figure it’s a small price to pay for a semblance of safety from the potential danger stalking you from behind. He’s not very imposing, which is something to appreciate, and as you take small glances at him from the corner of your eye, you can see a smile that never seems to wane. 

Walking with linked arms is quiet but not entirely uncomfortable. You sign in relief at the sight of your car. All you wanted to do was go home and lay on the couch. It was a little disorienting at how quickly the tone of the night changed. 

“That’s, uh. That’s my car over there.” 

“Of course! The name’s Alastor, by the way darling. I believe you live across the lake! My apologies for not having introduced myself sooner; my mother would be appalled at my poor manners.” His voice sparks something in the back of your mind and you can’t place it yet. But his accent… his accent is familiar. 

“Are you from Louisiana?” 

“Why, I certainly am! New Orleans, in fact. Are you familiar with the area?” 

“No, not personally. But my grandparents and great-grandparents lived there most of their lives. I’ve never been.” 

“I’m sure it’s different than back in my day, but I encourage anyone I can to visit!” 

Before you can ask what he means, he’s taking your hand in a firm shake and stepping away. 

“Lovely to finally meet you! I’ll be sure to stop by sometime!” 

You’re marveling at the fact someone just invited themselves to your home when he turns and walks away. 

He’s humming something familiar. 

\--

_ Instead of your parents, you’re sitting across your eighteen year old self at the table. She looks disappointed. You’re not sure why; you’ve done everything you ever wanted. Maybe she’s disappointed because you haven’t married the love of your life yet. Maybe it’s because you’re too much of a recluse now. Maybe it’s because you can’t function without alcohol in your coffee anymore.  _

_ But you ended up being a writer, you have your own home, and you’ve traveled. What more could she ask for.  _

_ This time, you’re half expecting the clacking sound of someone approaching, and before you can expect the feeling of hands on your shoulders, you feel them instead on your sides. The hands are big enough to cover the entirety of your midsection and you feel his claws dig themselves into your flesh. You hear your rib cage sickeningly snap with a decisive pull of his arms.  _

_ Your eighteen year old self watches blank faced and you’re pulled apart.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not totally satisfied with how this chapter came out, but we finally get real Alastor and reader interaction. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has commented. You legit make me smile every time I read your lovely words.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How could you know, how could you know?_   
> _That those were my eyes_   
> _Peepin' through the floor, it's like they know_   
> _It's like they know I'm looking from the outside_  
>  _And creeping to the door, it's like they know_   
> Dangerous, Big Data (feat. Joywave)

You’ve placed a bed sheet over the stag heads and made sure the box with the guns and knives is closed. It’s time you face this room, but those precautions are necessary for your comfort. 

The immediate item in the first box is a silky piece of cloth with lace trimmings. Unfolding the cloth reveals it to be a long robe. The sunlight from the open window reflects off the ivy color and the stillness of the room makes holding it feel incredibly intimate. It must have been your great grandmother’s and you’re surprised your grandma had never seemed to have worn it. You don’t own nice robes or nightgowns. You don’t have a partner to admire you wearing one and you find them uncomfortable when you’re alone. But. The robe doesn’t seem that bad. It’s modest and long enough that you don’t think it’ll leave your legs feeling too cold. And besides, the idea of wearing something that’s been around since the twenties is interesting. You’ll hand wash it later tonight. 

\--

The woman looks through a box and a demon’s shadow sits nestled between the creases of the bed sheet covering the stag heads-- watching. The shadow’s owner has given it the task of monitoring her movements. Should she leave, it will tell the demon. If she sleeps, it’s to tell the demon. If she starts to zone out like she’s prone to do, it’s to report on that, too. 

\--

The feeling of being watched never goes away anymore. Before, you’d have periods of an hour or even half the day where you’d feel blissfully alone. In your wildest moments, you’d wonder if maybe you were being watched by your parents, or if going through your grandmother’s things has brought her here to you. But instead you blame it on stress and do your best to ignore the feeling. 

Underneath the robe is a stack of old records, many of which don’t even have covers to go with them, leaving quite a few of them unnamed. Some must have been your grandmother’s as they range from Louis Armstrong to Frank Sinatra, then a few that are much older like Mamie Smith and Bo Carter. It seems only logical that the next course of action is to buy a record player later in the day. 

For now, you continue to rifle through boxes, only finding things like old lamps, spoons and kitchen knives, an old brush that’s still in shining condition. Before stopping for the day, you find a dusty book with yellowing edges. What looks like an original copy of  _ The Mysterious Affair At Styles  _ sits in your hands and you’ve never been more fascinated. While many of the other items could be donated or sold off, this item for sure would be staying in your family’s possession. 

You’re broken from your appraisal of the book by a faint scratching sound you think is coming from the front end of the house. You don’t have any music playing and the television isn’t on, but you can’t tell if it’s coming from the deck door or the front door. It stops after a moment and holding your breath, you count to thirty before going back about your business. Must have been a squirrel. 

\--

You don’t know the first thing about buying a record player and you almost feel a little silly whenever the electronics clerk asks if you’re looking for any brand in particular.  _ Whatever’s good quality and can play old records _ , you reply. The clerk chuckles, but you end up with something in your hands she says will do the job. You have no reason not to believe her and walk out with an eighty dollar record player that you hope will bring justice to your family heirlooms. 

You’ve set it up on the breakfast bar and bring the stack of records in from the guest room before it gets too dark. After fiddling with the mechanics and getting it to a setting you think is correct, you pick up a Mamie Smith record and it begins to play. Wailing horns begin the first song and there’s feedback in the way that old records give. It strikes a chord with you and you’re hit with a wave of appreciation for your family that came before you. 

Standing at the kitchen sink with a bottle of laundry detergent, you listen the the album as you wash the ivy white robe. You’re careful with the lace, making sure you treat it gently but with enough force to get the smell of dust out. 

There’s movement outside among the forest trees, but you assume it’s one of the many woodland creatures that roam around outside the house and close the kitchen blinds. 

\--

_ It’s one of those dreams where you’re in an unfamiliar place, but the dream-you knows it’s your home. One of those dreams where the conscious you knows this isn’t your life, but the unconscious you believes it is and so you roll with it. It feels like second nature to be setting a table for two with a child in your arms.  _

_ You’re aware that you’re waiting for your husband and that dinner should be ready when he gets home, but you’ve had a long day and you didn’t wait until bedtime to wear your evening robe. It was chilly in the house anyways and you’re not expecting company.  _

_ That is, until there’s a knock on the screen door.  _

_ It’s a little odd, you think. All the folks you know are quite good about notifying you before coming over, or at least setting up a date beforehand. You can’t think of anyone who might barge in unexpectedly these days. But of course you’re wrong and Alastor is there at the door, smiling politely and asking if Tobias is home yet. You think it’s strange that he’s not at work with your husband, but you recall that he told you he’d be working late tonight.  _

_ Vaguely, the conscious part of you rings the alarm bell, saying that you’ve met this man before and he saved you from possibly being harassed in the waking world. But the unconscious, more vivid part of you recognizes him as a friend and coworker of your husband’s and someone who has come to dinner once or twice before. He’s charismatic and mildly intrusive in his mannerisms, but harmless enough. Still, he’s not your husband and the fact that he’s caught you in your night robe and your babe in your arms flusters you.  _

_ You explain that no, your husband is still at the station working late but is expected home soon, would he like to stay for supper? He’s once again polite in his refusal and says he’ll merely see Tobias tomorrow at work, good night my dear. And sometimes it’s hard to forget that he’s a regular man when he’s not a radio host-- he wears the role, the voice, the manners at all times as if it is his whole personality.  _

_ But when you close the door and reflect while you stir the food, you’re given goosebumps because sometimes, something about that man terrifies you but you have no idea why.  _

_ \-- _

Alastor stands in the kitchen staring at the ivy robe drying across a kitchen chair. He wants to laugh that fate should bring him back in the grasp of this family. This is most definitely Marta’s evening robe that he remembers so, so well. The fabric always fascinated him with the way it would flow behind her as she walked. 

Tobias was a swell enough man, if not a bit annoying. He reminded Alastor of a bird, always chirping when all you wanted was for it to shut up. But he meant well and was quite a good worker in the radio studio. He accepted Tobias’ offer for dinner one night and Alastor remembers Marta, still pregnant almost ready to pop, scurrying around the kitchen to prepare a third plate last minute. 

They seemed like the perfect family and the demon inside of Alastor cocked it’s head at the beautiful red painting he could make with the two along their living room walls. Sometimes, he’d catch Marta looking at him a little  _ too  _ closely, as though she were investigating him. Had she been the confrontational type, he would have expected her to ask if he were the city’s serial killer right on the spot. He thinks she was close once, when Alastor and Tobias went hunting together. He knew she half expected Alastor to kill her husband there in the woods. And he was close, but he knew she’d find him out. But it would have been fun, he thinks, to watch her confirmation and to watch her struggle. 

But she was pregnant at the time, and Alastor is a monster but he wasn’t  _ that  _ monstrous. And not long after the birth of their daughter, Alastor met his untimely demise. 

Both Marta and Tobias, to his knowledge, made it up to Heaven. He thinks the whole damn family made it up there. But  _ this one.  _ This one wasn't getting away this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory!   
> ...Just pretend your great grandparents' names were Marta and Tobias. Tobias is a cool as fuck name. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has commented. I'm working on replying to all of them. I appreciate every single one of you. 
> 
> Stay safe out there, folks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I've been looking hard, I've been biding my time_  
>  _You've been looking strong with a glint in your eye_  
>  _Everybody knows if I'm given the night_   
> _I might eat you alive, I might eat you alive, yeah_   
> eat u alive, Marian Hill

You wake up at seven in the morning still too groggy to consider working. Walking to the kitchen you think you should make coffee, but the robe that’s been laid out overnight has finally dried and it looks like new. The ivy seems brighter in the morning light and you slip it on. Silk fitting you just right, the lacing around the cuffs of the sleeves feel soft instead of itchy. Wearing it brings a sense of familiarity and a glint of last night’s dream flutters in the back of your mind. You surmise you must have dreamt of it--of wearing it. There's a familiar face, but it escapes you. 

The floor is cold against your feet as you make your way back to bed. Swaddled in the covers inside your nightshirt and robe, you feel a sense of safety. 

\--

_ You’ve found yourself on your butt, hastily scooting away from the hallway bathroom. You’re not sure why you were in there, but your dead mother fell from behind the shower curtain and began crawling towards you.  _

_ You can barely register your own scream while you try to back away as quickly as possible.  _

_ You’ve never seen a body in the middle of decaying, but you’re sure that this must be the state she’s in.  _

_ She crawls towards you, faster than you can get away. The whites of her eyes are liquidating and burn like acid as they drip down her face. The bags under her eyes droop lower, lower and her sockets are fully exposed. She looks like she’s just risen from the grave and her hands clasp open and closed, each movement of her fingers echo the snaps of bones.  _

_ You’ve made it into the guest room-- which you quickly think is odd since you never leave the door open-- and you continue to back yourself further. She’s gasping now, and it sounds as though she’s trying to say something. The whispers of an “I miss you” try to claw their way through her throat and you want to kick her away. This wasn’t the image of your mother that you were left with. You refused to let it be one.  _

_ Unsure of how, you find yourself with the hunting rifle in your hands. And you know you have no choice but to shoot her as she makes her way towards you. You’re standing now, almost flush against the window and all you’ve managed to do is point the rifle in her direction. You don't think you can do it. _

_ She’s crawling closer, her fingers reaching out and you think you see her nails hanging from their nail beds. You’re choking on your sobs now, begging her to please leave so you don’t have to. But there’s someone behind you, and gloved hands are holding yours, the both of you holding the rifle. They’re strong hands, sure and comfortable with the gun. The body behind you feels tall and sturdy, breathing slowly.  _

_ You know it’s the strange man who visits you sometimes. His finger is guiding yours to the trigger and you know the recoil will push you even closer to him. For someone so tall, he’s incredibly close to your ear. You think his breaths come out as pieces static. Like you have your ear next to a radio.  _

_ The deed is done and it’s the shock of having shot her that almost brings you to your knees instead of the recoil. The body on the floor, which should have been lifeless to begin with, is now completely motionless and you’re surprised to see gooey blood seeping from her head.  _

_ You’re holding onto the rifle like a lifeline, your whole body shaking but the arms hold you up.  _

_ “You’re safe now, my dear.”  _

_ And you believe him. _

_ \--  _

Your gasp upon waking almost goes unnoticed by the fact that someone is knocking on your front door. They’re loud knocks--persistent, too. Feet sweaty and legs shaky, you get out of bed and wrap the robe tighter around you. You feel like you’re in a cold sweat and the house seems too bright. 

Patting down your hair absentmindedly, you wonder who the  _ fuck  _ would be at your door. Absolutely no one besides your uncle knows your precise whereabouts and you’re tempted to just not open up. Maybe opening it while clearly half undressed in a robe might tell whoever to never knock on your door again. 

There’s a tall, olive skinned man standing before you. His dark brown hair and glasses are familiar and you realize that this is the man named Alastor, who helped you out the other night. Any remembrance of those terrifying few moments is completely unwelcome, but you suppose you can make an exception for the man on your doorstep. 

But you’re in your robe and almost forget it in your thoughts. He looks just as surprised as you are when you open the door and he looks no further than your torso, taking in the ivy. 

“My apologies, dear. Seems I’ve come at an inopportune moment. I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t help but pop by and see how you were doing after your little fright.” 

If you weren’t sure of the context, you would have sworn he meant the nightmare you just woke from. But knowing that would have been impossible, you think it’s safe to assume the incident you were just thinking of. 

“Right, yeah. Thank you again for that. It’s, uh. Good to meet you. In the daylight.” Needless to say, your people skills have been rusty since all the death. You’re half relieved that the man seemed to make up for your lack of charisma with his own. 

“It’s no problem at all! I find myself inclined to help those in need when I can. Speaking of-- I’m not sure if I mentioned, but I happen to live in the cabin across the lake. Should you find yourself needing anything-- anything at all!-- don’t be afraid to just give me a shout.” 

Not only is his tone excitable, but so is his accent, it seems. It flitters between the iconic Louisiana accent you’ve associated with your father’s family, and the inflection of a show host. 

“Thank you, Alastor. I appreciate it.” 

“Of course, of course. Might I get your name, darling? I don't believe I caught it when we first met.” 

You tell him and he repeats it back to you. The way it sounds on his lips is...intense _.  _ I t sends goosebumps rising underneath the silk robe. An image of a talking snake comes to mind and you think this is how Eve must have felt when approached to eat the apple. Tempted, curiosity piqued, and likely about to do something very bad for her. 

“I’ll be on my way then. Pleasure formally meeting you. I’ll be seeing you around.” And the way he says it makes it sound like a promise. His slacks and tucked in dress shirt are form fitting and you think perhaps seeing him again won’t be such a chore. But it’s odd that he still wears his black gloves. 

Functioning seems particularly taxing today and you think it best to go back to bed. Work be damned. 

—

_ You’ve been here before, on the forest floor. It’s the third time, you think, and you’re inclined to just lay back and let the dream take its course. The figure isn’t on top of you yet, and you can hear the sounds of the forest around you. The ground is hard underneath you, but your face sits atop a plush patch of grass--or is it moss?-- and it smells earthy. There’s no fear this time. You know how this ends and you’re aware enough to know you’ll wake up when your spine is taken.  _

_ There are footsteps approaching and not for the first time you wonder why this particular man has been in a vast majority of your dreams since moving. You’ve never heard a voice like his before, and you have yet to see his face so you don’t know how your unconscious mind has created him.  _

_ He sits lower on your legs this time, on the backs of your shins. He has heat to him--something you never found yourself noticing. You still can’t move but you can feel every single twitch in your own body. His gloved nails are sharp enough that they still slice through your shirt. He takes his time, methodical in a way you don’t think he’s been with your clothing before. Usually he’s only this precise when it comes to cutting you open. But here he is, starting from the top of your shirt collar and traveling down to your lower back. The scrape of his sharp claws and the sound of your shirt ripping does something to you and you throw caution to the wind.  _

_ This time when you buck your hips, he merely scratches harder. He runs both sets of nails all along your back, painstakingly slow. Determined for you to feel every inch of his actions. He shifts downwards so his body aligns with yours and he bares his teeth in the crook of your neck and you don’t bother to hide the gasp. His breath is hot and humid, in stark contrast to the cold floor underneath you but in perfect harmony to the body atop you. _

_ This time, when your hips lift to grind your ass on something, you’re surprised to find his grind right back.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like for me, writing actual reader/Alastor interaction is really hard. Not sure why. 
> 
> Huge thank you again to everyone who gives kudos and comments. I think you're rad as fuck.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You're something beautiful_  
>  _A contradiction_   
> _I want to play the game_  
>  _I want the friction_  
>  Time Is Running Out, Muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks. Sorry for such a delayed and short chapter. Life comes at ya fast and I've had no energy to Do Things besides play Minecraft and Stardew Valley. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy the chapter.

There’s nothing more infuriating than being interrupted from a dream  _ going somewhere.  _ You’re not sure what’s woken you. In the haze of your half-asleep and half-awake state, it feels like something is stroking your exposed leg. 

You don’t know how you’ve slept the entire day away but judging by the crickets chirping and the darkness outside your open blinds, it must be late in the night. Waking in the middle of the evening isn’t unheard of these days, so you settle in to go back to sleep. 

The malevolent shadow that curled itself under your window now slithers back under your bed sheets and wraps itself back around your leg. 

\--

_ You’re in your master bathroom soaking in the tub. Usually you don’t really enjoy baths, but writing has been difficult and lounging in the large tub with soothing aromas seemed like a good solution. You’ve been working hard, you figured. You deserve something nice.  _

_ There’s a glass of something strong standing on the edge of the tub and you stretch your legs as you go to take a sip. The alcohol burns just right as it travels down your throat and you’re already starting to feel it in your core.  _

_ The bathroom is clean--cleaner than you’ve been able to get it in a long while. The walls are almost bleached white and the tub shines almost brighter. It’s not overwhelming, surprisingly enough. It’s calming and the epsom salt you’re soaking in, mixed with the alcohol in your belly, loosens the tired knots in your neck.  _

_ After setting aside the glass, your hand travels down your body. Part of you knows this is a dream, but it’s one of the calmest ones you’ve had in so long. There’s no harm in enjoying yourself while you’re here. Without you fully realizing it, the bath becomes overrun with bubbles. It’s not something to complain about; in fact, it’s a luxury you hardly allow yourself to indulge in.  _

_ You begin touching yourself to the last dream you had--lying on the forest floor with the Dream Stranger’s teeth and humid breath digging into the crook of your neck. The sound of your clothes ripping ring in your ears and you use your left hand to insert two fingers into your hole while your right rubs slow circles around your clit. In your fantasy, the Stranger flips you over but is shrouded in darkness. The one constant is his gloved hands. He rips your tattered shirt from your torso, dragging his nails along your ribs and down your stomach. It’s enough to bleed, you think, and that only makes your own hands work slightly faster under the water.  _

_ There’s something poking around underneath all the bubbles--something that’s not yours. Under any other circumstance this would have terrified you, but it’s soft and pliable, something nonthreatening in this moment. You let it caress your upper thigh while you work, still going slow and enjoying every movement. It wraps around your leg, constricting comfortingly and seemingly testing out how to touch you. The sensation is wholly welcomed. You haven’t been touched in so long… you almost forgot how it felt.  _

_ After a few moments, the appendage (for lack of a better term) is accompanied by two more, both of which grab hold underneath your knees and pull them upwards, your legs poking up from the water. You’re in awe and instead focus on what’s happening instead of your increasingly filthy fantasy. Your fingers that were moving in and out of your hole move out and you reach over to down the rest of your drink. Just as the last drop is downed, the first appendage makes its way to your hole. It’s a strange feeling, unlike anyone who’s ever touched you there. Not even the more experimental dildos you’ve had can compare. Your own slick mixed with the water allows it to slip inside with ease and your legs being held up gives it a new angle. You can’t help the gasped moan. But to hell with it, you’ll be as vocal as you damn well please.  _

_ Your right fingers keep up their slow circles around your clit. It’s maddeningly slow, as though it weren’t up to you any longer. With every movement inside of you, the two appendages hold up your legs, squeeze you and loosen. Squeeze and loosen. This keeps up for far longer and you’re so close to the edge of bliss. It feels heavenly. You’ve never been religious but this is almost a religious experience. It’s infuriating and the fact that you can’t see beyond the bubbles makes it all the more alluring. Like you’re blindfolded but not.  _

_ You close your eyes against the brush of your g-spot. Your cries are becoming increasingly louder and pleading until finally, you’ve orgasmed to your heart’s content. You ride along the appendage as it pleasures you and you become too sensitive. Your right hand grips the edge of the tub and your left digs into your hair, completely taken aback by the mind blowing orgasm you’ve just had.  _

_ The appendages release you slowly, gently, and you’re boneless as you lay in the water. Your eyes remain closed and your smile is content.  _

_ “Did you enjoy that, darling?”  _

_ \--  _

You wake refreshed and ready to start the day. 

You look at the calendar above your desk and see that you have an eleven o’clock meeting with your editor that you need to prepare for. Pattering about the house in your robe, you make your coffee and morning bagel, looking over the last minute notes you made on the latest chapter. 

You feel better about today. Yesterday seemed impossible after your meeting with Alastor and you feel bad for your possibly off-putting nature. Perhaps you should do something to reiterate the fact that his presence isn’t unwelcome, you’re just not socially adept anymore. Perhaps some kind of pastry. 

\-- 

After the usual business is spoken, your editor says, “You look better today.” 

“I  _ feel  _ better. Just a bit. I think fucking off to a lake house was the right call.” 

“Hey, no one ever said the movies were wrong in that aspect.” 

You’re about to reply when you hear a gunshot in the distance. It sounds loud and powerful, but not necessarily close by. “Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” 

Rationally, you know there’s no way she could have heard the gunshot through the phone. But it seemed so out of place that you just had to ask. 

“I think I heard a gunshot.” 

“Well that’s alarming. What’s the crime rate like over there?” 

“I...haven’t heard of anything crazy happening.” You elect not to disclose what almost happened to you the other night. “I don’t remember anything wild happening when I was young, but things change.” 

“Are there hunters around? If it’s a rural area, that could be it?” 

She’s right, but was it even hunting season? What was hunting season even like, anyways? You had no idea about the local hunting laws… or any hunting laws, for that matter. 

“I guess that could be it. It was only one shot.” 

“Maybe that’s all they needed.” 

The thought is disconcerting and you think you might need to look into it. Later. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Your body is so sweet now, baby_   
> _I'm saying trick or treat now_  
>  _You know I've got to have you_  
>  _You sexy sweet cadaver_  
>  _All wrapped up like a mummy_  
>  _I'll cover you in honey_  
>  _And wait a hundred years or so_  
>  _You know, you know it isn't sexual_  
>  _Strictly confectional_  
>  _Strictly medicinal_  
>  _If a little nontraditional_  
>  Sweet Bod, Lemon Demon

Alastor is left not knowing how to feel about that last dream sequence. 

Never has he ever used his precious helpers for such a deprived task but they  _ do  _ have a mind of their own and they seemed to find enjoyment in such an event. To which he chastised them as  _ filthy-- _ affectionately, of course. 

This give and take of good and bad is doable, he concludes. He’ll give her all the bad, sprinkle in some good and safety, then snatch it away and replace it with more bad. His presence should prove to help with that, Alastor thinks. 

One thing he’s enjoying about this woman is her proclivity to nonchalantly shoo him away in the middle of the night. It’s rare he’s told to simply  _ fuck off  _ by a mortal (demons, of course, have more guile, but even in Hell, he’s treated with more respect and fear than this woman shows him). 

He wonders if her tone will change once he shows his capabilities. He wonders if she’ll change once she’s down in Hell. 

\--

It’s quieter than you’d thought it’d be for a summer afternoon. No birds, no cicadas. Maybe it’s because you’re disconnected from nature or maybe it’s because of the hunter’s gunshot. 

You didn’t think people hunted in summer. You always thought it was a fall and spring thing. 

The heat and humidity seep into the house and no matter how low you turn the A/C, you still feel the stickiness inside your office. It’s oppressive and distracts you from searching the internet for the local hunting laws. Just outside your window, the lake looks inviting. The sun’s reflection radiates from the water and almost seems blinding, setting the water ablaze with bright color. 

You have a bathing suit. This part of the lake is essentially  _ yours _ (except for the opposite side which you assume would belong to your neighbor) and you can’t see anyone else coming outside to enjoy the oppressive air. A dip in the lake sounds much needed. 

Walking outside, the covered grill draws your attention. The memory of your father teaching you how to use it is sudden and involuntary. You’ve known how to use this particular grill since you were fourteen, a skill he insisted you’d need to know, but not something you’ve done since you were eighteen. You miss it… the family barbeques, giving your dad a beer while he grills and him allowing you small sips now and then. The way summers felt  _ normal  _ and  _ safe _ . Your eighteenth was the last time and you know you still hold cold resentment towards them for that. You’d always wanted to ask,  _ Why on my birthday? You couldn't have waited? Why’d you choose that day to ruin it?  _ And you’re an adult now, probably expected to be over it, but the pettiness and betrayal never left your young adult brain. The only time you’d had the chance to ask was when both were in their hospital beds and you couldn’t make yourself bring it up while they died. 

Despite the sun beating down on the water, it’s dominantly cold when you dip your feet in; a beautiful contrast in temperature. Through all the years, you’re surprised to find the lake mostly in the same condition. When you decided to move into the lake house, you worried the property would have faded in beauty and health. But the lake remains the same as it did in its golden years. 

You try to find the cabin across the way through all the trees. Your memory is fuzzy on whether or not you remember there being a home across the lake. When the man named Alastor mentioned it, you’d hit a kind of memory roadblock--not able to confirm the existence of a home but not having the ability to refute it either. Perhaps it was built after the last time you’d been here, you figure. 

You’re fully in the lake now, keeping your arms and legs lazily moving to a stay afloat. The sounds of wildlife are back in full swing and a cloud has passed under the sun to shield you as you relax. For once since your parents’ deaths, you’re left with the feeling that being alive is momentarily beautiful. You’ve found a small paradise in this excessive heat, in the lake of your secluded home surrounded by the sounds of nature. You feel about as happy as you felt when you were at the piano bar, alone but enjoying the ambiance and the simplicity of it all. 

Floating on your back is meditative. Your eyes are closed and you focus on the sounds surrounding you. There’s a weightlessness to your body and it feels like you forfeit physical autonomy to the water currently cradling you. Dipping your head underneath the surface, the quietness envelopes you. Eyes half-lidded, the watery image of the sun beating down on the lake is oddly peaceful and small bubbles float from your mouth as you gaze upwards. 

You think it might be a branch, poking and briefly tickling your left foot; maybe even a string of dead leaves floating by. It doesn’t quite register as something worth worrying about as you gaze upwards, slowly losing air but in no hurry to come up to breathe. That is, until whatever it is has solidified, wrapping around your ankle and tugging you deeper underwater. It’s tight and unyielding, sending you into a disbelieving shock that  _ something  _ is literally dragging you further in the lake. 

Your sense of survival finally starts working in overdrive as you flail, trying to reach the surface for air. Bubbles escape your mouth as you shriek. Your lungs burn and ache for oxygen and  _ whatever it is  _ only tugs harder. Your arms reach upwards and your right leg kicks to get you swimming upwards. Your fingertips break through to the surface and you wish for something solid and tangible to help pull you up. In your panic, you can’t help but yell out underwater, not able to stop yourself from wasting anymore air. Water drowns out your cry of fear but you’ve flailed enough to get closer to the lake dock. Your hands grasp at the splintered wood, clawing up in opposition to the dragging of your left foot. You’re pulled further away from the surface.

With all your available upper body strength, you begin to pull yourself up along the wooden dock leg. You can feel bits of wood embed themselves into your palms and your nails break with the force of your pulling. Finally, your hands break through the surface once again and you grasp at the edge of the dock. The first breath of air burns and you sputter water from your mouth. Panicked yells continue to fill the daytime air as whatever is underwater begins to pull at you with renewed vigor. Your right foot kicks at the offending grasp and you’re so close to fully pulling yourself up onto the dock. Every cough and gasp you make only seems to hinder you though, and you’re almost dragged back underwater when you’re suddenly let go. 

Scrambling out of the water, you can feel more pieces of loose, sharp wood getting jammed into your thighs and getting caught in your swimsuit. The dock is warm and it’s only now that you realize the water had made a drastic change from warm to ice cold once you were grabbed. As though you were swimming in the winter instead of the middle of summer. Your body convulses from shock and from the leftover chill not having left your body yet. 

Your mind doesn’t quite know how to process what just happened. Laying flat on the wooden deck hearing the birds chirping and the sun beating down on you like nothing happened, you feel as though you must have imagined it. Like it was a sudden nightmare with your eyes open. One big hallucination with very physical consequences. 

You’re still coughing up leftover water. Your throat is raspy and your arms feel like jello. Your mind wants to reject what just happened. It’s in such drastic contrast to what you’d felt moments before it happened that it doesn’t seem quite real. 

Had it even been real? 

You remain laid out on the deck, still curled in on yourself. Your body has stopped shivering and your shoulders ache from the uncomfortable wood but you can’t make yourself move. Your gaze is fixed on the shore where the water meets land. You’re fixating on how clear the water is, right at that physical junction. It’s an odd thing to focus on, but you think if you address what just happened right after it's happening, you might just break. 

\--

You can’t bear to look at the lake as you finally stumble back to the house. 

It took you an hour to finally come back to yourself--an hour of staring at the lakeshore, slowly blinking and wondering if you were even alive. If what you had just gone through was real at all. 

In your bathroom, you sit on the closed toilet with a pair of tweezers, naked and trying to pick out the biggest pieces of wood you could see. Your fingers ached while you did so, a few of your fingertips having bled from their own splinters. Your palms were no better, having been scrapped raw and the wound from the hunting knife having opened back up and begun bleeding anew. 

Before stepping into the shower, bleeding and feeling sufficiently haunted, you notice a stark bruise wrapped around your entire left ankle. You stare, trying to process what this implied. 

You begin throwing up in the toilet when you come to terms with it. 

\--

Alastor watches the woman splayed out on the living room couch, bottle of liquid in one hand and her other rubbing tiredly along her face. Her aura shifts between the darkest of colors; from fear, to existential dread, to the panicked questioning of her own sanity. 

It’s  _ glorious  _ to witness. 

He can still smell the blood from her palm. Her palm that  _ his blade  _ sliced through. Every drop of blood that drips from that wound solidifies his manifestation in the earth plane. 

Had she an affinity for the sixth sense, she’d see inhuman shadows dancing along the walls; rallying around the room, surrounding the latest lamb to be led to slaughter. 

He wants to strike now. His excitement is bubbling up inside of his chest, begging for the instant gratification of granting himself his wish. But he can’t get ahead of himself. He’s already come so far with this poor creature, it’d be a shame to just end it without the dramatic show he’d planned. 

Alastor remains watching as she eventually passes out. 

\--

_ There are only a few things you’re sure of.  _

_ One, you’re wearing the ivy robe. You don’t know how you know this; the soft silk against your--presumably-- naked skin is the only reasonable clue, but you don’t need it. Somehow you just  _ know. 

_ Two, there’s something covering your eyes.  _

_ Three, you’re lying down unable to move. You can’t tell what surface you’re on. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable enough to be a table, but it’s not as cushioned as a bed would be, either. There aren’t any ropes tying you down. It’s like you’re paralyzed.  _

_ Four, and finally, you know you’re dreaming. You’re well acquainted now with the phenomenon of dreaming. Which is odd to say, seeing how you’ve dreamt ever since you were a child. But these dreams are different. It’s an awareness dream, you think to call it. A common thing that happens to many people, but to you it comes with this added presence that never fails to make itself known.  _

_ You can hear that presence walk towards you now, always with the clack-clacking of what you imagine to be well-polished shoes. You don’t know why you imagine them to be so; you like to think they’re black, smooth, and shiny.  _

_ You think your lack of sight should make you afraid. But this isn’t the first time you’ve been barred from seeing this presence. All you know is the sound of his voice, his gloved hands, and the way he walks. And the way it feels to bear his weight on top of you.  _

_ You know this presence could hurt you. He  _ has  _ hurt you before, in these dreams. And you wonder if you’re sick for not finding it in yourself to fear him. You never outright feel pain when he hurts you. When he breaks your ribcage open or slices your back to tear the spine from you. Perhaps it’s the lack of physical pain that tricks your brain into thinking you’re safe from harm with him. Perhaps your mind knows the uselessness in fearing such a presence that you’ve skipped over the learned helplessness stage straight to full blown acceptance. As a way of mentally protecting you and your fragile state of mind.  _

_ There’s a faint tune that grows a little louder the closer he comes to you. Something jazzy, something swing. It’s almost mellow; not too excitable but nothing to fall asleep to.  _

_ You’re taken from your thoughts when his hand runs along your left ankle. The touch brings back the memory of what happened and the visual of the bruise imprinting itself onto your skin. Your heart rate quickens and a smidge of fear begins to break through your mind.  _

_ “Now, look at that,” he says. You can feel a finger trace along the bruise, feather light. “Look what you got yourself into, dear.”  _

_ You want to protest, to say you didn’t mean to. That you were attacked. But you can’t speak. Can’t speak, can’t move. Instead, you only whimper.  _

_ You don’t know what his presence means to you. You can’t tell if you find it comforting, or even as a symbol of protection in a sick sort of way. Maybe even something erotic, given two of your previous dreams. Nothing seems clear, but that doesn’t seem to worry you.  _

_ His touch disappears from your ankle and reappears at your face, taking your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. He applies pressure there, just as he uses his other hand to brush away the hair from your face.  _

_ He’s a wild card, you conclude. Chaotic in his actions.  _

_ His hand at your chin travels down to your throat and you can feel where there were fingers, there are now talons. His scratches feel icy on your skin, especially as they travel down your jugular. His other hand grips your hair, clutching it and pulling your head further back into whatever surface you’re on.  _

_ There’s a strange duality between the hard grip in your hair and the now soft touch below your collarbone. It’s as though he’s feeling for your heartbeat. It’s a balance between a soft and a hard touch that somehow makes you breathless.  _

_ You’re hyper aware of how the robe shifts with his touch right along your cleavage. You can feel the silk shift further apart to make space for him and somehow this makes you more nervous than whatever bodily harm he could possibly do. It should feel erotic, but it goes beyond lust. This is something different. It’s a promise of something, but you’re unable to comprehend it.  _

_ You can feel him leaning over you now. There’s a ghost of his breath along the shell of your ear and you know he can feel the way your heart quickens under his fingers.  _

_ You think he’s about to say something, you  _ wish  _ he’d say something. But instead his teeth pierce through the flesh of your neck at the same time that his talons dig into your chest. He’s reaching far enough to go past your ribs and free to clutch at your heart. He’s dug himself so deep in both your neck and your chest that your mind doesn’t know which one to focus on.  _

_ You don’t know how you’ve managed it, but your arms are freed from whatever restraint you were under and now grasp at the body over you, simultaneously pulling him further into you and pushing him away.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter to make up for my absence.   
> Grad school & writers block, amirite. 
> 
> No but honestly, it's the beginning of Spooky Season and I really wanted to get back into writing this fic for it. This chapter was really hard to push through, but I'm glad I could get it out for you guys.   
> Again, I love every single one of you who leave kudos/comment/and bookmarks. Just know that it really keeps my head up when I feel shitty and I frequently look back at all the great things people have said to give myself a pick-me-up. 
> 
> Anyways, enough with the sappy shit. Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. 
> 
> OH ALSO, I know fuck-all about hunting laws, so. Yeah. Sorry for inaccuracies.


End file.
